


It's Not the Chase that I Love (It's Me Following You)

by oh_la_fraise



Category: The Losers, The Losers (2010)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_la_fraise/pseuds/oh_la_fraise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was going to be filed under “shit they never talked about ever,” right between when their Trans Op before Pooch died and that time that Jensen got plastered and tried to make out with a tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not the Chase that I Love (It's Me Following You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plingo_kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/gifts).



When Clay starts shifting at their latest debriefing, Roque knows it’s going to be one of _those_ missions. When Clay nervously runs a hand through his hair, Roque considers turning in his two weeks notice and getting the fuck out of Dodge.

Instead, he settles into a chair, gratefully taking the beer Cougar offers him. There’s an almost invisible line of tension running through the other man; he knows Clay’s poker face as well as anyone. Pooch’s brow is furrowed, and Jensen keeps shifting in his seat as if he’s gotta take a piss.

Fuck, Clay must be really upset if Jensen is picking up on it.

Clay clears his throat. “We’re state side, this time. Taking out the ring leader of a sex slave ring.”

Pooch glares. “What’s the catch?”

“Well. Before we can take the guy out, there’s intel we have to get. Where his bases are and shit. He’s heavily guarded, so we’re going to have go undercover.”

Jensen groans, head hitting the table with a thunk. “Shit. God, I hate going undercover.”

Clay rubs his neck hesitantly. “Yeah, it’s not you this time, kiddo. We’re not sure where he’s based, so we’re doing this old school.” A pause. “We know a bar he frequents.”

Pooch raises an eyebrow. “We gonna to try to seduce the guy?” Not exactly fun, but it wouldn’t be the first time the Losers had pulled that type of stunt.

“Yeah. Only the guy has. . .unusual tastes.” And he looks directly at Roque and all Roque can think is oh, fuck me.

And not in the good way, either, because Roque probably wouldn’t say no to that.

“Unusual tastes like how?” he asks, and Clay does that sighing thing again.

“Have you ever worn heels before?”

And there goes any romance he may have been feeling.

~

See, here’s the thing about Roque and Clay.

They’ve known each other for a long time, saved each other’s back more times they can count. When they fight, they adapt to each other’s movements unconsciously. Roque would die for Clay in an instant. They have a platonic bond that only trauma and survival can create, and Roque treasures it more than anything.

But it’s platonic. Roque’s made no secret over the years that he plays for both teams, and he’s seen Clay take off with a guy a few times when the girls are slim pickings. But sex is one thing, and romance is another. With how close they are, being fuck buddies wouldn’t really be possible, and a messy break up could completely destroy their team. So they flirt around each other; Clay keeps Roque in line and Roque keeps Clay from doing anything too stupid. And it works.

If Clay thinks they could work as more, he never says anything, and Roque isn’t going to be the one that brings it up.

 

~

Clay makes everyone leave when it’s clear they’re not going to stop laughing anytime soon. Roque controls his temper by pretending his favorite knife is embedding itself in Clay’s temple. “Send Cougar.”

“Cougar’s got to watch your back. You won’t be armed, in there; Cougar’ll be the only thing protecting you.”

Reason fucking five million why this was a bad idea. “Pooch, then.”

“Pooch couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag. Especially doing, well, this.”

“He’s married! He lives with a woman, for Christ’s sake!”

“Point still stands.” Clay looks down, and then back at Roque. “Roque, you’re the only one who can pull this off. I need you.”

No, no, no . . . Roque makes the mistake of looking Clay straight in the eye. Fuck. Some very, very small part of Roque that is emotional and cries at the Notebook (not that he’s ever seen it, of course), makes his heart skip a beat. “Fine.”

~

Jensen laces his hands behind his head, tipping back in his chair. “Rosalind.”

Cougar snorts from behind his book; Pooch laughs outright. “Roquelle,” he suggests.

The other two look at Cougar expectantly before the sniper sighs and sets down his paperback. “. . .Rosalina,” he says finally. Pooch and Jensen burst out into laughter.

Roque snags his foot on Jensen’s chair as he and Clay reenter the room, sending the techie sprawling on the floor. Jensen keeps on laughing. “Oh my god, you’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

Roque pulls out the machete he keeps with him at all times. “One more word.”

Pooch takes over. “You know, you’re going to have to wax your legs, right? Drag queens aren’t hairy like your nasty ass.”

Clay huffs in a way that says shut up before I replace you idiots with a real team and throws a wad of cash at Pooch. “You. Go shopping. Get stuff that Roque’ll you need. You know,” he waves a hand, looking out of his element, “girl stuff.”

Jensen jumps up from the floor. “Hang on, I’m coming with. No way in hell I’m missing this.”

As they rush out the door, Cougar gives Roque a sympathetic look. (And, oh shit, he’s getting sympathy from Cougar.) “Jensen has his sister and Pooch has Jolene; they know what they’re doing.”

Clay still looks uncomfortable. “I think they might be right, about the shaving thing."

~

Jensen holds something pink out. Pink and sparkly. Pink and sparkly and strapless.

“Sorry man,” he says, and yeah, he’s going to be sorry, the little punk, “it was the only thing they had in your size. Apparently,” and Jensen is giving up all pretensions of trying to talk with a straight face “your hips are big.”

The dress, although Roque will never say it aloud on the pain of death, is tight in the hips, and it’s a big fucking dress. He momentarily thinks about ordering a salad instead of the steak dinner he’s been promised when this is over, and immediately shudders. This job is getting to him.

The top of the dress, however is a different story. The one shoulder flops pathetically to the side, while the non-shoulder side droops around his pecs. “I don’t have boobs, idiots. It won’t work.” Inner Roque gives them a giant “I told you so” with a helping of hope that this roadblock will kill the mission.

Pooch holds up something that looks and smells suspiciously like raw chicken cutlets. “Not yet, you don’t.”

~

Roque tugs at his wig, trying not to wipe out on the stilettos he was balancing on. Just get in, get the intel, get out. Like it was ever that easy. No one was going to believe he was an actual girl, but Loquard, if the rumors were correct, didn’t really what was underneath the dress so long as the dress was there.

He resists the urge to take a swing at the bouncer body checking him with a nasty leer. Roque settles for glaring back as the man’s hands linger a little too long around his junk.

He feels ridiculous. He looks ridiculous. Worse, he feels naked; there’s nothing in his ear relaying info from Clay or Jensen. And this is the first time he’s been without a knife or gun tucked at his back since. . .well, for a long time.

He settles at the bar, smoothing his dress around his legs. The target, one Pierre Loquard, is in the back, surrounded by a gaggle of women and men and bodyguards. Roque gives the guy a well, hello there look that never fails, swallowing his nausea. It’s hardly the first time he’s picked up a guy, and it’s not even the first time he’s picked someone up for a mission, but it is the first time he’s been dressed as a chick.

Loquard looks back, raising an eyebrow. Roque smiles. The guy smiles back, and waves Roque over.

“Well, hello there,” the Frenchman purrs, eyes skimming over his body. “What’s your name?”

He can’t believe he’s doing this. “Rose.”

“Well, Rosalina,” oh my God cold this guy be any more cheesy inner Roque screams, “can I buy you a drink?”

Roque tries to not look feral when he grins. “Sure.”

~

“So you go to Cozumel. Where else? Where else do you like to spend your time, Monsieur Loquard?” Roque goddamn titters, trying to ignore the hand creeping up his thigh.

“I spend a lot of time in Brazil. I think you would like Brazil, my dear Rose.” Okay, Mexico, Brazil, France. That had to be all of them.

Roque pulls away slightly. “I would, Monsieur. Unfortunately, I have to go; I didn’t realize how late it was.”

Loquard’s hand tightens on his thigh, his drunk levity suddenly gone. The guards tense. “Wait.”

“I’ve enjoyed myself, really,” says Roque, pulling back.

And then he makes the mistake of looking towards the window where he knows Cougar and the others are watching.

He watches the security goons tense in unison. Loquard ducks under the table just as a bullet flies through the window. Roque takes that as the signal to get the fuck out of there.

Only the second he slides out of the booth, he trips on those ridiculous shoes.

People in the bar are screaming, and bullets are suddenly flying. One finds its way into Roque’s hairless leg, and he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming. Someone approaches him, and he takes one of the goddamn shoes and stabs with it. The guy goes down with an oomph, and Roque punches out, grabbing his gun. Then he resolutely pulls himself up and limps toward the door.

He sees Clay in the door the same time the bullet rips into his body and settles somewhere along his ribs.

~

 

Roque wavers in and out of consciousness, catching snippets. Cougar’s steady hands prodding at the hole in his torso, Pooch shouting at the wheel. His head in Clay’s lap, his CO rubbing comforting circles on his back.

~

Roque knows he’s in the hospital before he even wakes up; years of inhaling antiseptic unconsciously looping through his brain. He cracks his eyes open to Clay slumped in a chair next to his bed, a thick layer of fuzz on his chin and smudges under his eyes.

“Hey,” Roque says, and if it comes out a little weaker than he intended, well, whatever. He’s been shot; he gets brownie points.

Clay blinks at him slowly, like he’s still trying to process things. “How you feel?”

They’ve got him on the good stuff; he can’t feel anything. “Better than when I was wearing that goddamn dress. Shit was tight.”

Clay rubs a hand over his jaw, which Roque knows is a signal for A Serious Conversation. Sure enough, Clay starts, “Roque, I’m sorry. I—“

And Roque just wants him to shut up. The meds swim in his head, and before he can stop himself he spits out, “oh come off it, Clay. If you really want to make it up to me you can blow me later or something.”

Something in Clay’s face shifts. It’s how they normally tease each other, but it has a sharper edge to it since Roque is pretty sure he almost died. Clay takes a step closer and says, “yeah? Maybe we can arrange that.” And he dips down and puts a chaste kiss on Roque’s lips.

And then he pulls back and bolts before Roque can wipe the shock off his face. Shock that probably looked a lot like anger from where Clay was standing; Roque didn’t have all that much range in facial expressions.

Well fuck, he thought. That had worked on Gray’s Anatomy.

~

“You made a good girl, Roque.” This is the first time Roque has seen Clay since the incident, and he’s pretty sure Clay is plastered.

“. . .The fuck?”

“Fine. You made a shit ass girl. But you’re still hot.”

Roque wants to hit him; inner Roque wants to kiss him.

He settles for both.

~

“Hey, Roque, will you help me with my makeup?” Jensen asks casually as he roots around the fridge. Roque twitches from where he’s settled at the table, but doesn’t rise to the bait.

“No really,” Jensen continues, pulling out a sandwich. “Maybe we could go shopping later? I want some eyeliner that matches my eyes.”

“Jensen,” Roque grunts in a dangerously low voice, “one more word and you’re going to have eyeliner up your ass.”

Jensen just huffs and looks at Clay. It’s a the-boss-won’t-let-you-kill-me-in-front-of-him look. Which is generally true; as obnoxious as his boys can be, the paperwork to fill out when a CO watches one of his men kill another is even more obnoxious.

But what the hell. He’s relaxed; he’s gotten laid recently and there’s a beer and a half swimming through his gut. Besides, Jensen is reaching levels of annoying impossible for mere mortals and Clay figures he owes Roque something for their—he checks his watch—two days and seven hours anniversary. So he very casually and very intentionally shrugs his shoulders.

Jensen blanches and proves that despite evidence to the contrary the Comm Op is a genius. He sprints out the door immediately, yelling “no fair! Favoritism!” over his shoulder as Roque thunders after him. Clay huffs and takes a bite of Jensen’s forgotten sandwich.

Ten minutes later, Cougar wanders in. “Roque,” Cougar informs him seriously, “has chased Jensen up a tree. He is threatening to strangle him with a pair of hosiery.”

Clay pauses. “. . .Did you get pictures?”

“Pooch went to go get his camera.”

A few days later, all evidence of Rose has mysteriously disappeared. The pictures of Jensen, shoved in a familiar pink dress with eyes garishly lined in blue, take a little longer to go away.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for plingo_kat; one of her preferred pairings was Clay/Roque. I wanted to write an angsty, haunting piece about Roque atoning for his mistake from beyond the grave and ending with a Clay/Roque-possessed!Aisha sex scene a la The Lovely Bones. Instead, I wrote Roque in a dress. Whoops. Thanks to katemonkey for the beta! The title is taken from the Avett Brother’s “Kick Drum Heart,” which has nothing to do with the story except I really, really like that song.


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